Forever Your Earl (34 page)

“Mr. Lawson,” she said, pressing close to the door. “You don't know me, but I'm a friend of Daniel's. And your sister's, too, I hope,” she added, glancing at Catherine.

The girl gave her a small, encouraging smile.

So Eleanor pressed on. “Those two—­they care about you very much. You don't know the lengths they've gone to find you. Daniel even had me write about him. You know those articles you liked so much? The
Rake
pieces? I wrote those. So we've a bit of a connection, you and I. Daniel had his private life exposed for all the world to see, using the thinnest veneer of a disguise, just so he could locate you. I can't imagine that was very easy for him. In fact, I think it must have been awful. But he did it for you.”

There was silence on the other side of the door. Then, softly, “I liked those articles. They made me smile.”

A filament of hope came to life inside her. “There, you see,” she said in a matter-­of-­fact tone. “Ghosts don't smile. They don't read scandal sheets or go to phaeton races, either. I think,” she continued, “that you aren't a phantom at all. I think that Jonathan Lawson is still alive. Perhaps not thriving, but alive. And a part of you knows that, as well.”

“No,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” she insisted. Praying for inspiration, she continued. “The spirits of the dead, they don't feel pain. And I know you're in pain right now, Mr. Lawson. But . . . that's good. It means there's part of you that wants to heal. That clings to life. Even in the midst of darkness, that flame still burns inside of you. It's a beautiful thing, that flame. Maybe it's a little dim right now, yet it can be kindled higher. Don't concern yourself with getting that fire back to its full height. Don't worry about that now. All that matters at this moment is nurturing that tiny, flickering light. A bit at a time. That's all. Just a minuscule trace. Just for today. Just for an hour, a minute. Can you try something like that, do you think?”

Another long pause. “Perhaps.”

God, was this working? “No one said it will be easy. It'll take hard work. But you'll have an advantage over all the thousands of souls dwelling in darkness right now. Do you know what that advantage is?”

“None,” he said lowly. “I have none.”

“We both know that's not true.” She gazed at Catherine, then at Daniel. He looked back at her, fierce and resolute. And loving. “I'm looking at two advantages right now. Two allies. They both care about you so much. They accept you as you are. Not who you were, or who you might be, but you, in this very moment. And they will be beside you. Every step. Every stumble.”

“I can't let them down again,” Jonathan said.

“You won't,” she insisted. “Because you never disappointed them in the first place. They
love
you. You might think you don't deserve that love, but you do. All of us deserve love. And acceptance.” Her throat burned. “But right now, I need you to be strong enough to open this door and take the first step. Not for Miss Lawson. Not for Daniel. But for yourself. Because, by God, you deserve that first step. Is that . . . is that something you can do?”

A very long silence followed. Eleanor looked at Daniel, her heart welling. While at the same time uncertainty spun through her. Had she said enough? Had she pushed Jonathan Lawson further away? She couldn't fail him. She couldn't fail Daniel.

And then . . .

The key turned. The door creaked open.

Jonathan stood in the doorway, looking like a man cast out to sea. Eleanor took a step back to give him room. The man barely looked at her. He'd only eyes for his sister. Slowly, his hands came up, reaching for Catherine.

She ran to him. And in a moment, they were kneeling on the floor, embracing. Sobbing. Catherine kept stroking her brother's hair, murmuring soothing endearments.

Tears pricked the backs of Eleanor's eyes, and when she glanced at Daniel, a sheen gleamed in his eyes, as well.

She walked quickly to him, and he enfolded her in his arms.

“Well done, Lady Scribe,” he whispered.

T
hey bundled Jonathan into Catherine's waiting carriage. He seemed weak, shaken, and dazed, but he held tightly to his sister. She wrapped him in a blanket, and he huddled into a corner of the carriage, eyes staring straight ahead. Eleanor could only imagine the road that lay ahead of the girl and her brother.

Daniel shut the door to Catherine's carriage. She brought her face to the open window, her free hand resting on the casement.

“There aren't words,” she said.

“None are necessary,” Daniel answered. He covered her hand with his. “I'm only glad to have him back.”

Catherine cast a worried look at Jonathan. “I am, too. Only . . . this won't be easy, will it?”

“I wish I could say otherwise.” Daniel looked grim. “But whatever comes, I'll be there.”

“And me,” Eleanor added.

Catherine turned her gaze to Eleanor. “Miss Hawke . . . what you said to Jonathan . . . that was the turning point. If it hadn't been for you . . . I don't think he would have come out. That's a debt I can't repay.”

“It doesn't need repaying,” Eleanor said, and she meant it.

“If there's ever anything my family can do for you,” Catherine pressed, “you've only to ask.”

Eleanor nodded, though her own sense of honor would never allow her to ask a favor of Catherine Lawson or her family. There were some things a person did without hope of reward, or even recognition. One simply did them because it was a hard, harsh world, and everyone was in this madhouse together.

“Get him home,” Eleanor said, nodding toward the shivering Jonathan. “Give him rest. And understanding.”

“I will. God bless you both.”

Daniel pressed a kiss to Catherine's hand, then let it go. He knocked on the carriage to signal the driver. The vehicle drove off, carrying Catherine and Jonathan Lawson home.

Daniel and Eleanor stood in the middle of the road, watching the carriage ride away. She wrapped her arms around herself.

“They have a long journey,” she murmured.

“They do,” he agreed. “I won't let him down again. And Catherine's grown stronger. Whatever comes, Jonathan will not be alone.”

“He might have a chance, then.”

They were silent, contemplating the perilous path Jonathan must now walk. She didn't envy him. But if there was any mercy in this universe, she hoped a little might be spared for him.

She shivered.

“Let's get you home, too,” Daniel said, pulling her close.

Together, they returned to his phaeton, and he helped her up. The vehicle itself was unharmed, which was remarkable, given the rough neighborhood. But perhaps the local citizens had seen Daniel fight, and knew not to tangle with a man like him.

After he took his position with the reins, he snapped the ribbons, and they were off. Much more slowly this time.

They progressed through the darkened streets of London, the city impassive as it rose up around them. No one in any of the buildings understood what had happened this night. No one knew that a momentous chapter was about to close forever. But both she and Daniel seemed to recognize it, for neither of them could break the silence that descended, a silence that was weighted with portent and sadness.

“He's home now,” she said finally, as they got closer to her neighborhood. “No more
Rake
articles.”

“No,” Daniel said, his words heavy. “They're not needed anymore.”

The truth of this hit her like a landslide, burying her. If the articles were unnecessary, she and Daniel didn't need to see each other any longer. Their time together was finally, truly over.

It was a physical pain. Edged and cutting. As though she was being cleaved in half. Impossible to endure. Yet she had to. What choice was there?

“This doesn't have to stop,” he said, reading her thoughts.

“We both know it does.” She looked down at her hands knotted in her lap. They were closer to her home, now. Only a block away. Such a short distance, such a brief span of time. “You can't give me forever, Daniel. An earl and a journalist . . . it can't work.”

He growled. “Damn it—­”

They pulled up outside her building. “It's the truth.” Her voice was rusty, tearing her up from the inside out. “You know it. So do I.” She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Prolonging it makes everything worse.”

Before he could respond, she jumped down to the pavement. She couldn't look at him. Couldn't see his face, his eyes. All the parts of him so precious to her. It only reminded her of what they couldn't have.

“I love you, Daniel.” She didn't face him. Only stared blindly at her front door, her gaze filmed with tears. “If you care about me at all, you won't try to see me. You'll let this go. You'll let me go.”

“Like hell,” he rumbled.

She heard him leap down from the driver's seat, so she dashed up the stoop and hastily unlocked the door. His boots drummed on the stairs as he followed. But she dragged the door open and slipped inside. Before he could follow her into the entryway, she hastily shut and locked the door.

She leaned against the wood as he hammered on it. “Eleanor! Eleanor, damn it! Let me in.”

Biting her lip to keep from responding, she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the shaking of the door through her body. Or maybe the shaking came from her. Distantly, it amazed her that she could feel new levels of heartbreak, when she kept imagining she'd reached the pinnacle of agony.

“Eleanor!” he shouted.

The voice of her landlady rang out. “Go on, now! Or I'll call the constabulary.”

“Do it, harridan,” he snarled back.

Eleanor almost laughed.

“Police!” cried her landlady, louder now. “Murder! Thief!”

Daniel cursed. Through the door, he said, “This isn't over, Eleanor.”

She heard him stalk down the stairs. Then the clip of his horse's hooves on the pavement as he drove away.

Eleanor continued to lean against the door, her heart lying at her feet, shattered into countless bleeding pieces. The door to her landlady's flat opened, and the frowning woman stuck her head out.

“I don't take kindly to that kind of ruckus, Miss Hawke,” she snapped.

“It won't happen again,” Eleanor answered. And the pain redoubled. Because she knew it was true.

 

Chapter 26

There is nothing as fragile or resilient as the human heart.

The
Hawk's Eye
, June 13, 1816

F
eeling like a caged wolf, Daniel paced back and forth in his study. Late-­afternoon sun pooled on the floor. He'd already tried to wear himself out at his boxing studio and with a long ride to Hampstead Heath and back. Nothing worked. He ought to be exhausted. He hadn't slept for days, and he barely ate. But he couldn't.

Two weeks had passed since Eleanor had slammed the door in his face. True to his word, he hadn't given up trying to see her. Yet herein lay the problem with having a very clever woman as a lover—­she'd managed to keep herself hidden from him. He'd sent her letters that had gone unanswered. Barring this, he'd gone to her offices, but she'd contrived to never be there whenever he'd been. He'd stalked the Imperial, yet she hadn't been there, either, and Mrs. Delamere had refused to tell him anything. Only looked at him with surprising pity.

He'd even waited outside Eleanor's lodgings. But she must have been sleeping elsewhere, because she didn't appear.

Damn it, he was a bloody
earl,
and this one woman managed to evade him at every turn. What the hell was he supposed to do? He knew she was around somewhere, because issues of
The
Hawk's Eye
continued on, though without the
Rake
articles. Was he the only one who detected a certain melancholy quality in some of the articles? Or maybe he was simply seeing what he wanted to see. But he'd heard the heartbreak in her voice, had seen it in her eyes.

He couldn't simply let her go. Yet she seemed determined to keep them apart. Was there a point where he must give up? Her wishes were paramount. If she didn't love him, if she hadn't said how much she cared, if her reasons for this divide came from her heart, he would walk away.

Yet she had some bloody idea as to how the world worked, how things
must
be. And that couldn't be gainsaid.

There had to be something—­but what? How could he prove himself to her?

A tap sounded on the door, and it opened slightly.

“What?” Daniel snarled.

“Lord Allam,” the butler said.

“I'm not at home.” Daniel had never denied his godfather entrance, but he needed solitude.

“The devil you aren't,” Allam said, shouldering past the butler.

Daniel fought a growl. But he bowed as his godfather came into the study, leaning more heavily than usual on his cane. It was either bow or throw the older man out, which years of breeding—­and respect—­wouldn't allow Daniel to do.

Allam immediately helped himself to the decanter on the sideboard, pouring himself a respectable drink. Strange how Daniel hadn't even considered strong spirits to help keep his restlessness at bay. Nothing could satisfy him—­except Eleanor.

“An unexpected pleasure,” Daniel said.

His godfather threw back his drink, then whirled to face Daniel, his expression irate. He jabbed his cane into the ground. “You deny me entrance and then fall back on meaningless pleasantries?”

“Very well,” Daniel answered. He strode to the door and held it open. “Go.”

The older man snorted. “The deuce I'll leave.” He planted himself in front of the fire, set his cane aside, and crossed his arms over his chest—­the action so very like his son that it nearly made Daniel laugh. Except he was in no mood for laughter.

Allam and his son Marwood also had stubbornness in common. By the set of Allam's feet, planted wide as if expecting a fight, he planned on staying.

Daniel could be just as determined. Hands on hips, he demanded, “State your business, then.”

“Where have you been?”

“I'm right here.”

“None of your equivocation, lad,” Allam snapped. “I've got eyes. I can see you. But these past weeks, I haven't seen you out on the Town. Not at the theater, not at any balls or assemblies. I asked my son, and he grudgingly told me you haven't been to the gaming hells.”

“You've been keeping watch on me.”

“Of course I have,” the older man said. “You're my godson. Your welfare is my responsibility.”

A drink did sound appealing, after all. Daniel poured himself a strong one and took a bracing sip. “I'm a grown man. I don't require nannying.”

“Except when you forsake all your known pleasures and become a hermit.”

Daniel stared into the bottom of his glass, but no answers were forthcoming from the cut crystal or whiskey. “I've lost my taste for it.”

His eyes narrowing, Allam accused, “There's a woman behind this.”

Daniel stiffened. “What do you know of it?” he growled.

“Who is she?” Allam fired back.

Daniel finished his drink, then tossed the glass to the ground, where it shattered. Frustration boiled up, red and seething. “A woman I can't live without. From some labyrinthine sense of how the world works, she believes we can't be together.”

Allam gazed at the broken glass and said, “She's unsuitable.”

“Depends on how you define
unsuitable,
” Daniel replied.

“She isn't for you,” his godfather said flatly. He strode over to Daniel. “You have an obligation, a duty to your name and your future generations. Don't throw all that away on an infatuation. At least this woman understands that, even if you don't.”

“You spoke with her,” Daniel said with sudden realization. “That night I found her in the study—­you'd been here and talked to her. Told her to leave.”

“And she was smart enough to do it,” Allam answered.

Rage poured through Daniel, searing him from the inside out. He had to forcibly keep his hands from curling into fists.

“How bloody dare you?” he growled.

“I dare because you matter to me,” Allam snarled back.

“The Ashford title matters to you, but I don't.” Daniel stalked away, too overwhelmed with anger to trust himself around the man he'd known his whole life.

“It has to be this way,” Allam said to his back. “You understand that, don't you?”

“So I'm supposed to just forget her,” Daniel bit out.

“Yes,” the older man answered with brutal candor.

Daniel clenched his jaw. “I refuse to accept that answer.”

“It's not for you to accept or deny. It's the truth of our times.” A fragment of sympathy glimmered in Allam's gaze. “No matter what your heart tells you, there's no fighting the truth.”

“You're wrong,” Daniel said, turning around. “The truth is ours to shape as we want it. And I'll have my truth, by God. I'll have it.”

T
he words swam in front of Eleanor like flecks of ash on the oily surface of water. She tried to focus on the copy in her hands, but her mind obdurately refused to do anything. Except dwell on Daniel. That task, it did with remarkable ease. And frequency.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back the heaviness that always threatened to overwhelm her from moment to moment. Every part of her ached with weariness. She'd been on the run for weeks, constantly evading him. His letters went unread—­though she did tuck them into a compartment in her desk. Someday, years from now, she might read them. But for now, she hadn't the strength. Because she knew he would try to convince her to come back. That they could be together. She was so tempted to believe him. Yet she knew reality, even if he refused to believe it.

God, how hard it was without him. Each day a long, colorless struggle. She did everything by rote. Eat, sleep—­though both minimally—­write.

“You're a shadow of yourself,” Maggie had said to her one night. Eleanor had been staying in Maggie's rooms near the theater, but it had hardly been festive. “I think . . .” Maggie had taken a breath, clearly reluctant to speak. “You need to see him.”

“I can't,” Eleanor had answered, staring up at the ceiling. “You know more than anyone that their kind and ours don't mix.”

Maggie hadn't had an argument to refute this, so they had both lapsed into moody silence. Ever since then, her friend hadn't suggested that she contact Daniel again.

Work was her only salvation. The only thing keeping her moving forward. But her old joy was pallid now, with no one to share it. She kept catching herself thinking of things she wanted to tell Daniel. Articles she edited that had to do with acquaintances of his. The scandalous exploits of his friend Marwood, for example. Or something outrageous that happened at Vauxhall.

She'd believed her life to be complete and satisfying before he'd come into it. And that life had been all those things. Yet he'd altered it all. Reversed the poles so that she could no longer find true north.

Weary, discouraged, Eleanor set the article aside and, with her elbows on her desk, put her head in her hands.

A sheet of paper slid in front of her. A piece for
The
Hawk's Eye
.

She glanced up to see Harry standing before her desk. The lad gave her a sheepish smile. “It's for tomorrow's edition.”

“Give it to Miss Voight,” she said tiredly. “I can't look at another article.”

“Miss Voight's out covering the veterans' return story. There's nobody here but you to do it.”

Seeing as how she had little choice, Eleanor picked up the brief article and read.

Has love found Lord Rakewell at last? The dissipated earl has perchance ameliorated his wicked ways. He has been conspicuously absent from all his favorite haunts, and is rumored to have remained within the confines of his own home for over a fortnight!

Through this paper's web of intelligence, we have been able to learn that indeed, Lord Rakewell is no longer a habitué of sinful indulgence since he fell in love with one quill-­wielding woman. There are those who might believe such a woman would be unsuitable for an earl, but Lord Rakewell has publicly made it known that to continue living without her would be a hopeless endeavor, and one which he flatly refuses to consider.

An announcement of happy news is perhaps forthcoming. Depending on the lady's desire.

Eleanor looked up. Daniel stood in front of her. Impeccably dressed, as always, though his dark hair was longer, slightly mussed. He was thinner than last she'd seen him. His new leanness gave him the impossible, sharp beauty of a saint—­though he still had the wicked blue eyes and mouth of a sinner.

The paper slipped from her hands. She wanted so badly to reach out for him. To touch and smell and taste him once more. Yet she forced herself to keep her seat.

“The staff was to alert me if you were here,” she said, impressed that she managed to keep her tone level. Then, raising her voice, she said, “I'll fire every last one of them.”

Before Daniel could speak, Harry poked his head in the doorway. “Begging your pardon, Miss Hawke. But the rest of us saw how poorly you were doing, and . . . well . . .” He shrugged his bony shoulders, then disappeared.

“Don't blame them,” Daniel said, his voice dear and familiar. “They care about you.”

“I'll still sack them all,” she muttered. She picked up the article. “We'll need to work on your prose. It's a rather remedial piece of writing.”

He raised a brow. “It's not the style of the piece that should concern you but the content.”

Abruptly, she rose from her desk and strode for the door. But instead of fleeing, as she burned to do, she shut the door, then faced him. “This changes nothing, Daniel. You and I—­”

“Are going to be married.”

She stared at him. Her heart slammed in her chest. Clearly, she'd heard him incorrectly. “Married?”

“That's what ­people in love do. Or so I've heard, and I happen to agree with this piece of conventional wisdom.”

“But—­”

Her words fled as he lowered himself down onto one knee. “I've heard this is customary, too. When asking a woman to be one's wife. Though rakes are not known for their proposals—­except for indecent ones.” Despite his light words, his eyes shone brightly, and there was a tremor in his voice. Suddenly, all lightness fled, and he'd never looked more solemn. “Eleanor, everything in that article is true. I can't go on without you. I need you in my life. Now. Forever.”

She pressed her fingertips to her trembling lips. Here was a fresh anguish, being offered what she dared not hope for. “We can't,” she whispered. “An earl and a newspaper editor cannot marry. Remember what happened to Lord Fleming?”

It took Daniel a moment to recall that unfortunate nobleman and his wife. “He wasn't strong enough. But I am.”

“What about—­”

All the world was in his eyes. “What's the point of being an earl,” he said, “if I can't marry the woman I love?”

“It will cause a scandal we cannot escape,” she breathed. “I've seen it. Written about it.”

“Scandal sells newspapers.”

“Don't jest.” She spun away, bracing her hands on her desk.

He rose, and his hands cupped her shoulders. “I'll tease you about many things in the course of our life together, love, but never about this.” Gently, he turned her around and tipped up her chin. “Those other scandals, those ­people you've written about, they could never withstand gossip. But I'm Lord Rakewell. Scandal means nothing to me. I can weather it better than anyone because I'm made for scandal. And I'm rich and influential enough so that no one will deny me. I always wondered what the point was of having so much power—­but now I see. It's for this.” He lowered his head and kissed her. Tenderly. Sweetly. With an undercurrent of heat that she couldn't resist.

In small fragments, the darkness engulfing her began to fall away. He was here. Anything was feasible.